Sticks & Stones
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: An accompanying piece to the Prelude, Fugue & Lucidity trilogy of stories - set in Wartime England. Centres on a teenaged Helena Draven persecuted because of her mutant status. Can stand alone, but it's better to read 'Prelude: A Canadian Tale' first.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Sticks & Stones  
Author: The Duchess Of The Dark  
Teaser: Accompaniment piece to a trilogy comprising of 'Prelude: A Canadian Tale', 'Fugue: X-Men' & 'Lucidity: Renascence'. A teenage Helena Draven struggles to cope with her mutant powers and the prejudice of her schoolmates.

Rating: PG-13 for language.

Disclaimer: All recognisable concepts (mutants etc etc, blah-de-blah) belong to Marvel Comics. I own not, you sue my regrettably pear-shaped English arse not. All characters in this piece are mine.

Genre: General/drama. For more dark fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires at

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.  
Notes: Text in _Italics_ indicates thought. Italic text in apostrophes _'italic'_ indicates telepathic conversation..

*

Liverpool, UK, December 1939

"Freak! Freak! Freak! Your mum and dad didn't want you!"

Back pressed flush with the coarse grey stone flank of the school building, the whippet-thin girl with untidy curly dark hair gazed at the circle of vicious, taunting faces. The chanting grew louder, faster, building up to the inevitable outbreak of mob violence. An ugly baying pack of white shirts, blazers and striped school ties, they pressed closer, eyes blank with mindless prejudice. Her boot heel ground against tarmac as she tried to take another step back, the wall nudging her spine a tangible reminder she had nowhere to go. She was trapped.

"Freak! Freak! Freak!"

The chill November wind swirled through the schoolyard, creating clattering clouds of discarded sweet wrappers and dropped homework assignments. Somebody threw a broken piece of glass scooped up from the floor. It struck the fourteen-year-old above her left eye, leaving a crescent-shaped cut. Biting her lip, she refused to cry out, refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing they had hurt her. Her heart sank as her treacherous flesh began to itch and tingle, the deep cut knitting as cell embraced cell, looping cohesive layer upon layer until the skin was whole and unmarked. A rippling murmur of shock and outrage swept through the gathered school children, pimple-bright winter faces creased with fascination and disgust.

Helena began to tremble, gaze darting around the ever-tightening ring of her peers. Some were born bullies; gangling thugs with breaking voices and waspish would-be shop gossips with bonnets pinned untidily to their hair. Others were uniformed sheep, lacking the moral fibre, courage and inclination to do anything other than follow the majority. Seeing familiar faces in the constricting throng, faces she would have usually picked out as friends, she felt a cold weight settle inside her stomach.

The ringleader, a hulking boy whose father was the headmaster, laughed nastily and pointed a finger. At the age when physical growth outstripped co-ordination, he was a lumbering, clumsy bully who terrorised whoever he saw fit.

"See!" he bellowed, wiping his streaming nose with a monogrammed handkerchief. "That's not natural! Just like a girl learning to fight like the bloody Chinks!"

Several boys broke into exaggerated pantomime boxing poses, bouncing on their boot heels. Racial tensions of all varieties were high since the outbreak of World War 2, all the old differences between various communities coming to the fore. There had been talk on the wireless of giving out gas masks. The trophy she had won in the first competition allowing non-Chinese, female entrants suddenly weighing heavy in her leather satchel, nestled amongst her books, lunch box and pencil case, Helena swallowed. She recalled the Sensei's proud gaze following her to the judge's table, her bare feet slapping on the cool gymnasium floor as she bowed and accepted her prize. Most of the entrants were of Chinese descent and she was the only girl. The euphoria of achievement had lingered until she cut her hand during an art class and the startled teacher had seen it heal before his eyes. A week later, the headmaster had decided she should return her trophy as she had obviously 'cheated'. On her way to the office, she had found her path blocked. A struggling secondary school in one of the poorest, toughest districts of Liverpool with rebellious students and apathetic staff, sporting or educational achievement was the equivalent of a billboard-sized 'kick me' sign. That she had been unmasked as a mutant was merely a syrupy-sweet cherry on the icing.

_Control, _she told herself fiercely, eyeing the vicious faces around her. _Don't lose your temper – martial arts are for defence only. Remember what Sensei taught you: control, control, control…_

Repeating the mantra to herself, hearing the bird-like tones of her mentor, Ming-Na Chan, her Hong Kong English tinged with hints of a Liverpudlian accent, Helena fought the urge to lash out at her tormentors. A tiny doll of a woman with cherry blossom lips and dark almond eyes, her Sensei stood at exactly five foot tall. Teaching from a run-down dojo in the centre of Liverpool's China Town, she was exceptionally selective when choosing pupils. Perpetually serene in a snowy gi, which due to her height was a child's size, she rarely raised her voice. She did not need to. A single look into Sensei Chan's determined black eyes was enough to deter misbehaving students and local youths looking for the gambling and opium dens frequented by sailors alike.

Calming her tripping heart, Helena took a step forward, intending to leave with the remains of her dignity intact. Somebody hawked noisily and spat. A gob of green-streaked mucus landed on the toe of her boot with an audible splat. She looked at it. She watched it dribble to the accompaniment of loud snickering. A faint flush slowly rose on her winter-paled cheeks and her jaw clenched, breath white steam on the blustery cold air.

"Where d'ya think ya going, missy?" the ringleader demanded above the jeering and insults, shovel-sized hand coming up to slap her across the face.

Swivelling, she avoided the blow, her hand flashing up in a shooing motion that did not make contact. With a startled yell, the acne-spotted lad flew backwards like a papier-mâché marionette, mouth a stricken black square. He landed heavily, awkwardly and clutched at his spinning head. Dazedly, he looked down at his left leg, at the unnatural jut of his kneecap. Eyes wagon wheel huge in his head, he began to scream like a boiled kettle, all semblance of juvenile bravado wiped away by unexpected pain.

A dozen heads snapped towards the lone mutant teenager, twelve skulls housing bigoted minds that radiated hatred mingled with fear of the unknown. Feeling her heartbeat increase, primal fight or flight mechanisms galvanising her body, triggering the flow of adrenaline, Helena felt her control beginning to slip away.

_Oh dear Lord, oh shitshitshit. I didn't mean to do that, _she thought with rising panic. Her emotions starting to spiral, her incomplete mental shielding began to buckle, allowing a trickle of projected thought to pour through. _No! Not again! Remember what happened the last time you lost control. Concentrate, get your barriers back up, before..._

The trickle increased, rapidly becoming a raging torrent gushing into her mind, drowning her in a flood of angry shouting that echoed the verbal onslaught to her sensitive ears. She was being pushed and jostled, nose filled with the overpowering signatures of teenager vanity; hair pomade used by boys, cloying floral perfume stolen from mother's dressing tables on the girls. A fist struck her in the temple, a brief bolt of pain lancing through her awareness. More hands, female by the length and sharpness of the nails, grabbed her hair, raked across her face.

Assaulted from all sides, mind overloaded with sensory and telepathic input, her lips peeled back from her teeth and she snarled blindly like a cornered animal. Group mentality erasing individual qualms about attacking a fellow student, her classmates swarmed in with the brutal single-mindedness of a lynch mob. Her mouth filled with the wet iron bite of blood as she fell down on all fours, battered to the floor in a flurry of fists, kicking feet, writing slates and school bags used as bludgeons. The satchel containing her precious trophy was snatched away, books torn to confetti, pencils scattered. A ringing metallic clang reached her ears as a short, podgy boy began using the trophy as a cymbal, beating out the staccato rhythm of fear and ignorance on the nearest solid wall.

Raging emotions reaching flashpoint, her mouth opened and she howled piercingly, her vision momentarily whiting out. She was dimly aware of a spasm of intense pain shooting down her forearms, injecting liquid fire through her hands. The constant deluge of blows stopped, her physical pain dying away as her mutant physiology repaired the damage. Whimpering, she raised her head and peered through the dishevelled curtain of her hair. Her tormentors lay were they had fallen, motionless, sprawled over each other like toppled dominoes. All were bleeding from the nose and ears, scattered in rough concentric rings around ground zero – her.

Panting and trembling, Helena forced herself to get up, gazing around in utter shock. She disorientatedly wondered if they were dead. Biting her lip, she looked down at her hands and yelped tremulously. Foot long spurs of bone jutted from between the knuckles of each hand, ivory claws instinctively unsheathed in the face of danger. Raising her hands, she stared at them, then looked back at her fallen persecutors, searching for slash wounds. To her inestimable relief, she saw none, the faint beating of a dozen hearts telling her they were alive, if barely. A hand grabbed her shoulder, and she whirled, clawed fist coming up. The headmaster stared at her with naked horror and disbelief, disgust and fear warring for supremacy in his expression. He looked at her like she was an abomination, a thing, not a person – something to be feared, hated and pursued with a mindless prejudice.

"Good grief!" he choked, unlit pipe dropping from between his teeth.

Homo Superior regarded Homo Sapien and read each violent emotion borne of misinformation. Eyes burning with tears, Helena Draven turned and ran.


	2. Part 2

3

Breathing in the fresh, slightly bitter odour of green tea, Ming-Na Chan closed her eyes and took a small mouthful, enjoying the quiet. Petite laced boots dangling, she cradled a delicate bone china cup decorated with lotus blossoms. Gazing around the clutter of her office, at the somewhat battered steel filing cabinets and scratched desk, she listened to the muffled chorus of shouts from an intermediate lesson in the main hall. A polite knock sounded at the open door and she looked up to see a young Anglo-Chinese man in a neatly-pressed shirt and tie.

"I'm off home, boss," he informed her cheerfully."It's my Grandmother's birthday and my Mum will box my ears if I'm late."

Ming-Na nodded understandingly, suppressing a smile at the mixture of embarrassment and pride in his voice. Traditional Chinese respect for the elderly was clearly at war with any young man's need to define his own boundaries and image.

"But of course – send my regards to your grandmother, Lee. I'll see you in the morning."

Giving a small wave and a respectful bob of his head, Lee trotted off towards the exit. Moments later, the honk and snarl of the busy street filtered through as the door swung shut behind him. Settling back in her creaking office chair, Ming-Na contemplated the browny-green shimmer of her tea. Twisting the cream-streaked jade bangle around her reed-slim wrist, she looked at the clock on her desk, moving aside a sheaf of papers. She had another three quarters of an hour before her eighth dan students arrived for their daily training session. As Sensei, she took her responsibility to her students extremely seriously, her role often encompassing confidante, agony aunt and in some cases, parent.

The loud report of the metal outer door smashing back against the inner wall echoed resoundingly through the linoleum-floored corridor. Giving the briefest of frowns, thinking it to be one of many energetic teenagers who frequented the dojo, Ming-Na did not bother getting up to investigate. An academy full of martial arts-trained instructors and students usually meant any trouble was swiftly dealt with. Even the city's resident population of Triads thought it more trouble than it was worth to attempt to extort protection money from Sensei Chan and her pupils.

She was unprepared when a sobbing, bedraggled girl wearing a torn school uniform stumbled into her office and collapsed three steps over the threshold. Alarmed, Ming-Na leapt from her chair and over the desk. Features obscured by fallen hanks of finger-snarled chestnut brown hair, chest heaving with exhaustion, confusion and fear, the teenager trembled uncontrollably.

"S-Sensei," she quavered. "Sensei – please, p-please."

Kneeling at the distraught schoolgirl's side, Ming-Na reached out a comforting hand and touched her shoulder, brow furrowing as she jumped like she had received an electric shock. Taking in the ripped coat, shredded stockings and state of panting breathlessness, the Sensei realised she had run the six or so miles from her school.

"Helena," she said gently, automatically looking for signs of injury she had to remind herself she would not find. "What happened? Sit up, child, get your breath back and tell me from the start."

Slipping a maternal arm around her, she helped her sit up, then squatted on the floor next to her, smoothing the tangled hair from her forehead. Lower lip trembling, the teenager's fists unconsciously clenched.

"I-I was taking _it_ back and a load of kids attacked me," she began, her face crumpling with pain. "There was so many of them, Sensei. Screaming, calling me a freak, kicking me, hitting me. I couldn't help it… I_couldn't_helpit! Ilostcontolandmyshieldsbuckled – andandand…"

Holding up a finger to stop her frantic babbling, Ming-Na took the girl's face in her tiny hands, brushing away the tears with her thumbs.

"Hush, quiet your mind, regain your centre." Watching as her student nodded and began to breathe deeply and rhythmically, she patted her arm reassuringly. "Good… now, carry on."

Hazel green eyes apple-moist with unshed tears, Helena hugged her elbows and gathered her disarrayed thoughts. Her Sensei had known she was a mutant before anyone else, had taught her meditation techniques to block the terrible, deafening mental chatter inside her mind, taught her to focus her will and thoughts. Ming-Na Chan did not treat her like a subhuman third-class citizen, she called her powers 'gifts' and insisted she learn how to use them as they emerged.

"I don't know what I did to them," she admitted, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. "But when I opened my eyes they were all just lying there. Out cold, the whole lot of them. But that's not all, Sensei… I've got another nasty surprise."

Ming-Na raised a dark eyebrow enquiringly, watching curiously as her protégé raised her hands and gingerly balled her fists, features tensing in expectation of pain. Unable to stop herself, the Chinese woman sucked in a startled breath as bone claws snapped from between the teenager's knuckles. Glistening like excised elephant tusks, covered in a quickly evaporating patina of blood, they extended to more than twelve inches in length.

"I don't know what's worse," Helena whispered, her voice hollow as she stared at her claws. "That I've got them, or how badly I wanted to use them… I nearly gutted the bloody headmaster. You should've seen the way he looked at me, Sensei – like I was a Nazi!"

She smiled mirthlessly, her eyes abruptly cold and clear as green glass. There was a small, almost unnoticeable movement of her wrist muscles and her claws shot back. The exit wounds vanished, smoothed into non-existence by her healing factor.

"Maybe they're right. Maybe I am a monster."

"No," Ming-Na said sharply, causing her to look up. "You're not – they fear what they don't understand. Just as buffalo fear the dragon."

Standing, the martial arts master crossed to her desk and picked up the phone, dialling an interior extension. Rattling off a quick instruction in Mandarin when it was answered, she replaced the receiver and turned to her pupil, who had just slunk into a chair.

"There's somebody I'd like you to meet," she revealed. "He has come up from London especially."

Helena visibly wilted, knees pressed close together, chin sinking down onto her chest. She sighed and kneaded the bridge of her nose, feeling the low, throbbing beginnings of a migraine at the base of her skull.

"Sensei, I really don't feel I can demonstrate any techniques to a posh Southern bloke right now."

Ming-Na shook her head firmly in the negative, crossing to the still-hot teapot and kettle at the back of the office. Pouring a generous cup, she handed it to the teenager, who obediently began to drink.

"He's not here for that, child. I've told him all about you and he has a wonderful opportunity for you."

"You told him I'm a mutant?!" Helena squeaked, eyes widening with shock. "Bu…"

Catching a new male scent not familiar to her nose, she turned, nostrils instinctively flaring as the aroma receptors in her brain processed and identified it. A tall, pinstripe-suited man with short, neat silvery hair and a grave demeanour stood in the doorway.

"Indeed she has, young lady," he said, his voice a deep, educated baritone. "And that is exactly why you are perfect for the job."

Setting her cup down on an uncluttered corner of the chipboard desk, the teenager wriggled about in her chair until she faced him, faint suspicion evident in her expression.

"Helena, this is Mr McKellen," Ming-Na introduced. "He works for the Government."

The young mutant eyed him over and nodded a non-committal greeting. He looked like a civil servant, screaming middle-aged, middle England bureaucracy from tailored suit to carefully polished brogues. Tentatively, she reached out an ill-trained mental probe and was astounded to find he had durable shields. Concealing her surprise, she feigned disinterest.

"I gather you don't work for the Inland Revenue, sir?" she observed with ghosted sarcasm.

Ming-Na watched, noting with satisfaction that she did not allow the upset and turmoil she was feeling to show. She was determined, strong-willed and resourceful. She deserved a better future than the mutant-hating general public was willing to give. McKellan's lips twitched in a brief smile at her bravado.

"Quite," he allowed. "I've a proposition for you, if you're interested."

Helena shrugged with the studied indifference of a teenager and began picking at her nails, surreptitiously tugging up the torn flap of her school skirt.

"My department runs a programme for people with unique gifts – we teach them to harness and develop them to their fullest potential. We provide everything you could want – top notch training facilities, a place to live, money in your pocket, your own gramophone and wireless."

Covering her interest with a look of scorn, Helena inclined her head, the cynicism bred by too much harsh experience for her young age emerging. The offer of money and gadgets was simply too good not to have a hidden catch.

"What do you lot want in return?" she asked "There's a war on and I don't think it'll be over by Christmas, no matter what the BBC says."

McKellan smiled again, amused by her attitude, realising she was just as incisively intelligent as her mentor had described.

"No. We expect you to work for us eventually, once you turn sixteen."

"What kind of work?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

"Work suited to your talents," he returned softly, evenly. "Which I believe are self-evident."

"Soldiering?"

"Possibly."

"Inevitably, I should think," she commented, then frowned.

Seeing her mulling it over, her quick mind running through various scenarios and outcomes, McKellan shot his spotless shirt cuffs and glanced at Ming-Na Chen. She was desperate to get her protégé away from her deprived background, away from anti-mutant racism that would inevitably result in the serious injury and death of persecutors who pushed her over the edge.

"Nobody would ever call you a monster again, Helena," he said quietly, with authority. "You would earn more money in a month than the average worker does in a year. We'll train you to be the absolute best, the elite. You'll never want for a place to live, never have to settle for second best of anything. Wouldn't you like that?"

The girl looked up with growing hope, "My foster parents…?"

"Will understand. Ming-Na tells me things have been difficult at home since you developed your powers." He leaned forward and risked placing a fatherly hand on her shoulder. "All you have to do is say yes, my dear, and I'll take you away from all this hatred."

Helena looked to her Sensei, who tipped her chin encouragingly. Eyes tracking between the tiny Chines woman and the man in a handmade suit, she bit her lip, then looked up and gave a shaky grin.

"Do I really get a gramophone?" she asked. "They're really expensive."

McKellan chuckled and nodded, "We'll teach you how to build one, if you like."

Her expression brightened at the prospect and she swung her crossed ankles, examining a scuff on the toe of her boots. Ming-Na looked up as the Government man touched her arm and she smiled gratefully.

"Don't worry, Ms Chan," McKellan declared in his chocolate voice. "You made the right decision to allow us to see her. I promise you – no harm will come to her."

Watching as he sat down and pulled a thick, glossy-paged booklet from his briefcase that he handed to the excited teenager, she returned to her desk and poured more tea.

_A better future,_ she thought to herself. _Away from all this hate. Away from harm…_

*

_*** Well, think we can guess things don't quite work out as planned. Hope you enjoyed this little companion piece. It may give a few teensy-weensy spoilers for those who haven't read the trilogy, but it's just a bit of background filler for the character, really. Remember – never trust a man from the Government!**_


End file.
